


But the Layin' in the Grave so Long (Poor Boy)

by Skyelah



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 17:29:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13709241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyelah/pseuds/Skyelah
Summary: After 96 years, it's about time Papá Héctor came home.





	But the Layin' in the Grave so Long (Poor Boy)

The idea comes to Miguel after Mamá Coco’s passing.

Mamá Coco’s funeral is a solemn affair, though not a despondent one. There is food and drink aplenty, laughter and shared stories from those who knew her and wish to celebrate her life. And there is music, filling their home in a way it hadn’t since Mamá Coco’s papá left all those year ago. Until Miguel brought music back into their lives, in the form of a stolen lullaby and the story of a man who loved his familia so very much, who just wanted to come home.

Coco is laid to rest next to her husband, just steps away from her mamá. As the cemetery empties, and Miguel is left standing next to the freshly dug earth, he’s struck with a thought. _I wonder where Papá Héctor_ _is buried_. There is no tombstone in Santa Cecilia, no grave marker, just his guitar and his letters home, framed on the wall of the zaptería.

When Miguel returned home from his adventure in the Land of the Dead with the claim that his great-great-grandpa was the true genius behind De La Cruz’s most famous songs, he had expected his family to be resistant to the idea. Music had been banished from their lives for so long, and Héctor Rivera was a name most of them had never even heard before. Yet they had surprised him, taking Mama Coco’s fragmented memories and a pile of old letters and not stopping until they found a historian who could verify their authenticity, and a lawyer who would prove in court that those songs belonged to Héctor and that De La Cruz was a thief, a cheat, and a liar. _Murderer_ , Miguel insisted, but there hadn’t been proof of that beyond the circumstantial.

For Miguel, it had been enough that the world now knew the truth about De La Cruz, and Papá Héctor. It was enough to know that his great-great-grandpa would be recognized for his music and his love for his family, enough that he would never be forgotten again. But standing next to his Mamá Coco’s grave, with Mamá Imelda’s close by, it didn’t seem right that Papá Héctor had never made it home to his family. Even with he was with them in the Land of the Dead, even if he was finally able to see Coco again, he should be laid to rest beside them.

 _He just wanted to come home_ , Miguel thinks. And in his mind, Miguel makes his great-great grandpa another promise. 

* * *

 

It’s takes months of letters and emails, phone calls to history professors and record-keepers, before he finds an amateur historian in Mexico City, a man who had spent his life researching the early life and rise to fame of Ernesto De La Cruz. Señor Navarro is intrigued by Miguel’s accusations and thrilled at the challenge of proving them true. Together, they delve headfirst into moldy basements and dust-covered record books and files, looking for any shred of evidence, some glimmer of truth.

A marriage license found in the basement of a small chapel in Santa Cecilia certifies that Héctor and Imelda Rivera were wed in the spring of 1918. Witnessed and celebrated by one Ernesto De La Cruz. From there, the trail connecting singer and songwriter only grows – hand-drawn and water-stained posters advertise _Ernesto y Héctor_ , performing in Santa Cecilia, Puebla, Mexico City, in cities and towns throughout the country. In the same chapel, a record of the christening of Socorro Rivera in December of 1918, born to Héctor and Imelda Rivera and goddaughter to De La Cruz. A few old photographs, pulled from the deep recesses of the Rivera family attic where they had been locked away and long forgotten, picture Ernesto holding his goddaughter, laughing with his arm around his best friend. 

Then, in the late summer of 1921, H. Rivera and E. De La Cruz are listed as passengers aboard a train leaving Santa Cecilia. Files pulled from hotel basements and city offices place them in cheap motels and hopping trains across Mexico, travelling between towns and cities, never stopping for longer than a few weeks in each one. Letters from Héctor to his daughter tell of an inspiring tour, of beautiful cities and beautiful people. As time passes, the letters speak of a lullaby sung every night, of a family he misses, and a promise to come home soon. On December 3, 1921, H. Rivera and E. De La Cruz board a train bound for Mexico City. Four days later, E. De La Cruz leaves the city, alone.

It’s not a smoking gun, but for Miguel and Señor Navarro, it’s a place to start. More than a year following his adventure on Día de los Meurtos, Miguel and his papá and Señor Navarro meet in Mexico City. Over the summer break, and whenever Miguel and his papá can make the trip up from Santa Cecilia, they search old police records from December of 1921, wading through boxes of files long neglected, searching for any sign, any clue, that could lead them to Papá Héctor.

The file they find is woefully lacking – a man found in the streets near the train station, face down with a suitcase by his side. Cause of death, unknown. He’s nobody, with no family coming forward to claim him, and so the case was declared closed, and the body disposed of in an unmarked grave. At the bottom of the page, a record of where he’s buried, in a paupers grave, no tombstone to mark its place. It’s another three years before the court rules to let them exhume the body. 

Miguel is there the day they dig the boothill casket from the earth, whispering an apology and a prayer under his breath as they pry it open. The bones are weathered yellow and beginning to crumble, the hollow sockets and lifeless grin a poor facsimile of the vibrant, lively skeleton he met on Día de los Muertos nearly 5 years before. But he knows it’s his Papá Héctor, he would recognize that face anywhere. The glint of a golden tooth winking in the midday sun is enough to convince Señor Navarro, papá, and the city officials.

He doesn’t hold back the joyous grito that tears from his mouth. Papá Héctor was coming home. 

* * *

It’s Héctor’s fifth Día de los Muertos in the Land of the Living, and yet he still feels as giddy and unbelieving as he did the first time. His living family dance around him, laughing and singing, blissfully unaware of the dead mingling among them. His wife and daughter coo over little Socorro, now four and toddling after her tía Rosa as she plays her violin. Héctor sighs contentedly, then casts his eyes about the courtyard, looking for his great-great-grandson.

The boy has grown so much in five years, now nearly as tall as Héctor himself, and infinitely more talented, in Héctor’s opinion. He’s come so far from the little chamaco stuttering at the thought of performing _Un Poco Loco_ for an audience, now writing his own songs and performing them in the plaza of Santa Cecilia. Miguel stood just outside the ofrenda room, Héctor’s old guitar slung across his back. His eyes seem to stare right into Héctors own, and if he didn’t know it were impossible, Héctor could almost believe Miguel could see him. With a slight incline of his head, Miguel exits the courtyard, heading out into the village of Santa Cecilia. Héctor follows him.

Music echoes from the plaza nearby, but Miguel leads him through the back streets, winding a careful path away from the Rivera family home and towards the cemetery across town. He’s silent, and Héctor dogs his steps, confusing growing as they make their way to the cemetery gates. Then:

“Papá Héctor?”

Héctor startles, brow ridges shooting up in disbelief. Could Miguel… But then Miguel speaks again, shattering that thought before it had fully formed. 

“I don’t know if you’re here right now…I hope… I hope I was in time to save you. That you weren’t forgotten, that you got to see Mamá Coco again…” Miguel’s voice trails off. They travel up the winding path through the cemetery, leading to what was once Ernesto’s lauded mausoleum, now defaced and empty. 

“I told everyone about what De La Cruz did. You’ve probably seen… they know he stole your songs. We found your letters to Coco, and he still had your old notebook in his estate. Everyone knows who you were, and what he did. They won’t forget you again.”

Héctor is overcome with a swarm of affection for this boy, for his great-great-grandson, who was so good and kind and so loving. Hard to believe that Miguel got all that from him – it must have come from Imelda’s side of the family, he thinks with a fond smile. Miguel speaks again.

“You made a promise to Mamá Imelda and Coco, in your letters,” he says. “You promised them you were coming home. You were trying to come home, and… I just thought you might need some help making it the rest of the way there.” They’ve stopped now, and before them are two gravestones. One is clean cut and new, the other older, the lettering just beginning to fade. _Imelda Rivera, 1899 – 1970_. And beside his wife…

_Héctor Rivera_

_1900 – 1921_

_Beloved husband, father, musician_

_Recuérdame_

The dead can’t cry, but Héctor feels the burning of tears in his eyes all the same, and he cannot stop the choked sob that escapes him. He presses one hand, shaking, to his mouth, as if that could hold the rush of joy, loss, pride, relief that he's feeling inside. “Oh, chamaco…” he breathes, and finds he can say no more, overcome with emotion.

“I made a promise to you, Papá Héctor. I promised I wouldn’t let Coco forget you. I kept my promise. But you never got the chance to keep yours…” A single-dimpled grin breaks out on Miguel’s face. “You’ve kept your promise now, eh, Papá Héctor. You’ve come home.”

There’s nothing for him to do but reach out, and while he knows he cant touch the living, Héctor concentrates hard on the feeling of placing a hand on Miguel’s shoulder. He holds his hand there, with a memory of years ago doing the same and telling the boy _I’m proud of you_. It’s a sentiment he echoes now as he stands side by side with Miguel, wishing he could gather him up in his arms, wishing he could tell him just how grateful he was, how very _loved_ Miguel was. He may imagine it, but he thinks that he sees the ghost of a smile of Miguel’s face at his touch.

“ _Gracias, mijo._ ”

He is finally home.

**Author's Note:**

> I have far too many feelings about this sad skeleton man and his beautiful family. 
> 
> Title comes from the song "Hang Me, Oh Hang Me" by Dave Van Ronk. Though for the purposes of this fic, I listened to the Oscar Isaac cover approximately 100 times and cried a lot.
> 
> Any mistakes made belong entirely to me. A lot of research went into this fic, but understandably, mistakes and misinterpretation of facts do happen. Please feel free to leave constructive criticism on your way out. Or, feel free to join me in my feels over Pixar skeletons.


End file.
